


The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [3]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Harassment, Lasan, Lasat, Unwanted Advances, unsympathetic protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 15:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: The titular character, a Lasat shaman initiate, attempts very unsuccessfully to court one of his fellow initiates—and gets his just desserts when her boyfriend, a member of the Lasan High Honor Guard, hears of it. (The titular character is an expansion on a background character mentioned in chapter 2 of Raissa Baiard’s The Beginning of Honor, and some few events from that story will be referenced here.)





	1. Chapter 1

This journal is the property of  
PORFOZALD RUDIBLAD MARBALLEES,  
Initiate, 2nd Ordinary, Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans.  
He acquired it as a gift from his father,  
His Rev’ce RUFOZALD KENTIGORN MARBALLEES,  
1st Prime, Consistory of the Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans,  
on the occasion of the completion of his twentieth dust season,  
10th 19.7 3252.  
Hereby let it be known that all those who attempt to steal  
this valuable and important document  
will be struck down by the lightning of the Ashla.

  
**10th 23.5 3252** Boring day of studying for the 2nd Degree examination, which is in three days.  
  
**10th 24.8** Another boring day of studying for the 2nd Degree examination, which is in two days.  
  
**10th 25.7** Yet another boring day of studying. Exam tomorrow.  
  
**10th 26.9** A momentous day. On this day, I, Porfozald Rudiblad Marballees, have ascended at last—Ashla be praised!—to the second shamanic degree. (No thanks to all the silly, futile bickering about my knowledge of ancient writings; the Consistory should know by now that there is more to the calling of shaman than the memorization and recitation of tired old texts and the inconsequential minutiae associated therewith. It’s a good thing Pa set them straight on that point.)  
  
And now that I have attained to this new position of eminence, I feel I must needs turn my attention to the question of finding a suitable mate. Regretfully, the vast majority of females among the 2nds are of a flighty, superficial nature, caring only about hairpins and dresses. I have seen only one of my fellows who would make a fitting mate for a talented shaman of Lasan such as myself. She is but an initiate, but I have seen her immerse herself in her tomes and prayers as meekly and as studiously as any of the sage-maidens of old. (I make sure to pass by her study chamber every day. Neither Shaman Rokseth nor Wise Chava know this.)  
  
Now, anyone who knows me knows I have never set much store by mere physical beauty. Stone-green eyes and wine-colored stripes are beguiling, in truth, but worth nothing if not accompanied by virtue. It is essential to me, however, that any future mate of mine be able to bear fine, healthy kits, and be able to nurse them. And it is clear from a single glance that this young maiden has those capabilities.  
  
Oh yes. I believe her name is _Shumla,_ or something like that.  
  
**10th 29.0** I passed by the girl’s study chamber this morning. I think she was reading the Second Tractate of Prophecy (they all say the same things over and over and I can never keep them all straight). Then she took her chalk in hand and began sketching meditation glyphs on the floorboards of the chamber. I lingered for some time, watching her. Karabast upon karabast, such pious fervor, such grace, in one so young…  
  
As she finished the final glyph, the consecration glyph, she happened to look up and noticed me at the window. Being a naturally affable sort, I smiled at her. She blushed and gasped and turned away. Ah, such modesty! Now I know that my suit will not be in vain.  
  
And I was close. It’s _Shulma._ (It was on the door of the room.)  
  
**10th 30.8** Her shades were down when I passed by this morning. I was devastated. But perhaps she merely wishes to carry out her rituals in the privacy befitting a female of her age and rank. I must continue to tell myself this.  
  
**10th 31.1** Her shades were down again, but I saw her briefly in the reading room. Ah, how quickly those stone-green eyes turned downward when they met mine! A true sign that she does not wish to display her feelings all too quickly. (And we of the Marballees lineage have always had handsome eyes.)  
  
I should not fear, then. My suit is secure.  
  
**10th 32.6** Storms’ End is tomorrow. There will of course be the thanksgiving rituals at dawn, followed by the usual fair on the Parade Grounds and the games in the canyons. I generally stick with the thanksgiving rituals, for my own part. I have always abhorred the empty glorification of physical prowess, and I by no means condone competition for its own sake.  
  
That said—it is also the season, of course, when males of my age flock to the cliffs outside Lira Zel to climb that big spire or formation or whatever it is up near there. The Warrior, I think it’s called, or some such banal name. Concern for my safety has kept me from attempting this in the past, though Niff and Chukwu have pointed out that the spire is a popular gathering place for young females. I cannot think why they decided to mention that fact to me at that particular moment (or why Chukwu elbowed me in the ribs; I think I may need a bacta pad now). But I suppose there is something to it: females, being intellectually and morally inferior by nature, are easily impressed by such displays of skill. And I must remember that the object of my interest is, ultimately, a member of her sex. If there is any small chance that she will be there, since I so rarely see her in the reading room anymore…  
  
So I shall steel myself, for the honor of the Academy. In any case, with the proper equipment and precautions I should be all right. (Niff managed to secure a couple of grappling hooks. I shall tuck one into my belt satchel.)  
  
**1st 1.5 3253** Storms’ End was today. Unfortunately, I was unable to complete my climb of the Warrior, as I was taken ill with heat exhaustion soon after approaching the spire. (Chukwu has been spreading some kind of nonsense about how it was because I was scared. That is completely untrue.)  
  
Ah, well. It’s just a silly ritual glorifying toxic bravado anyhow, and in any event I don’t think the girl Shulma was even there. She no doubt would be much too prudent and modest to waste her time with such trifles. For my own part, I went back to the fair and treated myself to a medium cider. Naturally I did not give a second thought to any of the disgusting deep-fried pastries. Except, of course, for the konculor ears. Konculor ears are konculor ears.  
  
Oh, and a dust storm blew up. Yes, a dust storm blew up on Storm’s End. There is probably something about that somewhere in one of the Tractates of Prophecy, but I can’t be bothered to look it up just now.  
  
**1st 13.3** Back to studying, I guess. Nothing of interest has happened the last several weeks, which is why I haven’t written anything for the last several weeks. I sometimes see Shulma in the reading room, but she has said nothing to me beyond hasty hellos, then goes off to look for books or whatever. I am going to have to consider this further.  
  
**1st 16.2** An extremely worrisome development has presented itself.  
  
This evening, it so happened that I was able to board the funicular transport at the same time as Shulma. There were only a few others aboard. Naturally I sat beside her. Her natural modesty made her shift a little to one side and turn her face away. It was quite charming.  
  
“Hello,” I said.  
  
“Hello,” she said.  
  
“I hope you are well,” I said.  
  
“I am well,” she said.  
  
“You know,” I said.  
  
“Yes?” she said.  
  
And I told her the truth: that I have been meaning to tell her for some time that I find her sympathetic, and asked if I could treat her to tea or cider, perhaps at the Aspyn Room in town. (We of the Marballees lineage have impeccable taste.)  
  
She said she had other plans.  
  
“Then maybe some other time,” I said.  
  
“Mmm,” she said.  
  
And there was silence as the car clanked on.  
  
As we approached the station at the bottom of the mountain, I happened to glance out the window. There was someone pacing on the platform: some kind of big, burly military type. At the time I wondered to myself what business an Honor Guard brute like that thought he had in the vicinity of our holy Mount Straga. Alas, now I know.  
  
As soon as the funicular car halted at the station, Shulma alighted… and made a beeline for the burly soldier. And then she placed her hand in his… and he picked it up and _kissed it!_  
  
And they walked away together! _Holding hands!!_  
  
Honestly, I am so stunned I can barely set stylus to flimsi. A young female of her worth and perspicacity—a shaman of the Royal Academy, by the Ashla’s light!—taking up with some _oafish soldier?!_ When there is no shortage of eligible males _on her own level_ for her to choose from?! I mean, _really!_  
  
And yet: I must remember that females, even the best of them, are not very good at thinking these things through on their own. When it comes to such delicate matters, they require guidance. Otherwise their emotions tend to get the better of them and cause them to make decisions that they regret.  
  
So I shall offer her such guidance at the earliest possible opportunity. It is for her own good, after all.  
  
**1st 25.9** I saw Shulma walking with that soldier again at the funicular station. I got a closer look at him this time. Of course, nothing I saw surprised me. He has the typical dull, empty facial expression of a military grunt. As well as the most frightful facial hair. Those scraggly sideburns, that doltish goatee! A modest soul patch or some subdued bantha chops would have been much more tasteful—not to mention more appropriate to someone in his unenviable station. And that ungainly lumbering gait…  
  
Ugh, _karabast’aka,_ I can’t _stand_ it! The whole matter disgusts me so much I can barely concentrate on my studies. The very thought of her in the company of that _thing…_ it is simply too dreadful to contemplate.  
  
I think I shall go have another medium cider.  
  
**2nd 3.8** I have made some inquiries concerning this brutish interloper. His name is Orrelios—Garazeb Orrelios—and he is a cadet in the High Honor Guard. Apparently he is one of the best cadets in his class, but really, what does that mean when one is talking about mindless grunts? Niff says his mother used to be captain of the Honor Guard or some such thing (I can never keep all their silly ranks straight). Honestly, that’s probably the only reason he got into the military academy to begin with.  
  
And he has been courting Shulma (if so noble an expression can be used with reference to such a creature) since shortly after Storms’ End.  
  
Regrettably, I have still not had the chance to approach the girl on the subject. I did see her briefly as the morning rituals were letting out, but then I remembered that I had an urgent appointment with Wise Chava. (I later remembered that said appointment was actually for 4.2 and not 3.2, though that is immaterial.)  
  
But I shall bide my time. When the opportunity arrives, I shall take it. And I hold out hope that she will see reason.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a significant shift of viewpoint within this chapter, set off by asterisk separators.

**2nd 7.4** Ashla be thanked! The perfect opportunity has presented itself. A week from tomorrow is the Initiates’ and 2nd Ordinaries’ retreat to the tomb of Osthi the Storm-Dreamer in Feldspar Falls. We shall spend a week immersed in prayer and contemplation in the Ashla-permeated final resting place of one of Lasan’s greatest prophetesses. For a full week, then, the girl Shulma will be safely away from that clodlike suitor of hers. One can hope that the distance will cause her to forget him entirely. Indeed, for females, with their short attention spans and constant hunger for new sensations, “out of sight” very often translates to “out of mind.”  
  
**2nd 16.9** Arrived this morning in Feldspar Falls with the others and checked into the pilgrimage houses near Osthi’s tomb. Colder here than I expected; the tomb and its shrine complex are just outside the town, by a lake in the foothills of the mountains.  
  
I suppose I should describe the place; it is really quite charming in its way, even if it’s drafty at times. The main crypt is a rectangular space about the size of the downstairs meditation enclave back at the Academy, made all of stone, with a vaulted ceiling of moderate height. In the center, encircled by the customary stands for lightning torches, is the tomb itself: a sarcophagus of carved stone atop which rests a recumbent statue of the prophetess. One of her hands rests directly below her heart, which has been pierced by the blade of the Ashla. The other hangs down at her side, holding a quill stylus, and there is a book lying open on her lap. The sculptor gave her a great deal of flowing hair and drapery and such; too much unnecessary emphasis on appearances and sensory appeal, if you ask me, though it is not badly done. Anyway, each of the walls has a small colored-glass window in it, and they each show some kind of figure from one her prophecies; I can’t remember exactly which, but I think it was one of the ones that was declared deuterocanonical anyway.  
  
The girls are all excited, of course. They love those stormy prophetess types. Osthi is all well and good, but for my own part, I would have preferred a site associated with a more robust, sensible figure—say, the house of Rossalmus the Scribe on Shale Ridge. I feel that the Ashla would vibrate more fully and less erratically in such a place. And their refectory has better cider. But I shall take what I can get.  
  
Off to the evening ritual now. _She’ll_ be there, of course; will have to keep my eyes open for any possible opportunity…  
  
**2nd 18.5** Day three of the retreat. So far it is much like other retreats: morning and evening rituals beside the tomb, study and meditation throughout the day (which is why I haven’t been able to write much before now). The shrine complex has a decent reading room, though it’s nowhere close to the one back at Mount Straga. (Endowed by my Great-Gran Virguna Torgvall-Marballees, no less.)  
  
I have not yet spoken to Shulma, but I have, in the meantime, been keeping a close watch on her. How can I not? She excels the other shaman-girls as much as a neebray a thranta soars above the stars on a clear night a prongbok doe towers over a flock of goats. (I bet that oafish beau of hers has never come up with anything as poetic as _that!_ Yet another reason why she should choose me instead.)  
  
**2nd 21.4** I have a plan.  
  
I have observed that, after the evening ritual, as the fires of the lightning-torches are dying down, Shulma likes to spend some time alone in prayer beside Osthi’s tomb. All I have to do is stay out of sight till she finishes, then approach her as she walks back to the pilgrimage houses. (I’ve already stayed behind a few times to watch her—just for a few minutes at a time, of course. Ah, _karabast’aka,_ she really is just like the sage-maidens of old!)  
  
I told Niff and Chukwu of my plan. Niff seemed to approve, but Chukwu looked at me as though I had four heads and gave me all sorts of nonsense about how it was never going to work. Naturally I asked him _why_ he thought it was never going to work. His response: “Because I don’t think she likes you. She likes that Orrelios fellow.”  
  
I almost slapped him.  
  
Ah, well, some beings _will_ persist in their fatalistic attitudes, I suppose. I think he’s just jealous, anyway.  
  
**2nd 22.1** Tonight shall be the night. I quiver in anticipation. I have to get this right tonight because we go back on 2nd 24. May the Ashla guide me! (Very strange, the lights just flickered as I wrote that. But the energy service in these ancient mountain outposts can be frotzy sometimes, so…)  
**  
** 2nd 23.9 I shall attempt to record here in some detail the events of last night, which have shaken me to my very core. Truly, the sheer breadth and depth of female irrationality never cease to amaze me.  
  
Shulma was there as usual, kneeling beside the tomb and leaning over it in what probably was a level-three trance (the girls like level-three trances because they allow them to flop their hair and dresses around in a dramatic manner). I waited in the entrance alcove until I saw her stir and open her eyes (oh, those eyes!). Then I went up to her and called her name. She jumped.  
  
“I apologize for startling you,” I said (though I would gladly do it again just to hear one of those charming gasps). “I simply wished to ask whether you’ve had time to consider my suggestion.”  
  
“Consider what suggestion?” she said.  
  
Well, of course, with their limited mental capacity, females can’t necessarily be expected to remember everything, so I gently reminded her. “Cider and tea in the Aspyn Room. When we’re back. I would welcome the opportunity to… converse with you.”  
  
She stood up. “That will not be possible,” she said. “I am already seeing someone else. Now, if you please—”  
  
She began to make for the door, but I put my foot down on hers to stop her (we of the Marballees lineage have superlative reflexes).  
  
“Well, now, you see, that was precisely the other thing I wished to speak with you about,” I said.  
  
“Oh?” She tried to move toward the door again, and again I stopped her foot with mine, pressing down harder this time.  
  
“Yes. I beg you to reconsider your attachment to this… _soldier._ ” She opened her mouth to object, but I continued—most slowly and gently, because she was a female, after all. “Now, I realize that a man like that is naturally very attractive to a young female such as yourself, but what you have to remember about these _physical_ types—”  
  
“Porfozald—”  
  
“—is that they have no finer sensibilities! All they think about is their own, er, bodily appetites! And the first chance they get—”  
  
“Please _stop this,_ Porfozald.”  
  
“—they’re likely to, er, take what they want! By force! And you—you’re too _lovely_ and too _delicate_ to be manhandled by some uncivilized—Hey! Where are you going?!”  
  
She had freed her foot and was heading for the door. “I have already made my choice,” she said (so much ice in that sweet voice...). But I followed her out into the courtyard, extending my arms toward her.  
  
“But, Shulma! Don’t you understand?” And here—O success!—I managed to take hold of her _hand!_ Her own graceful, striped _hand!_ “Don’t you understand the nature of my feelings for you? Don’t you understand how much I—”  
  
“Let _go_ of me! _Now!_ ”  
  
“—I adore you! I think of you all the time! I dream of you every night!” (All true!) “And it just _pains_ me to my very _heart_ to see—”  
  
“OH, STOW IT, PORFOZALD!” So saying, she pulled her hand away most discourteously. I was shocked. Not least because I don’t know where she learned an expression like that. Probably from that Orrelios oaf.  
  
But with females one sometimes has to be firm, of course. So I took her hand again, and this time pulled it to my lips and pressed it there. And pressed it there again! And again! Ah, bliss!  
  
And how did she respond to this gesture of my affection? She yanked her hand away with a most ungracious snarl, struck me violently on the ear (I swear I felt a few Ashla sparks from the impact), and ran off. I followed, of course, calling after her, but she had already reentered the women’s pilgrimage house. Not to be deterred, I went up to the door and knocked several times, but the stubborn little fool didn’t answer. Finally the door opened to reveal Wise Chava, who fixed on me an eye like a convor on the hunt and said something like, “I believe you have the wrong pilgrimage house, my child.”  
  
And that, more or less, is what transpired. I am still reeling. My left ear is still sore. I do not understand it at all. I was doing nothing different from what that… that _beast_ did to her that time. She enjoyed it then; why not now? Aren’t females supposed to like tender little gestures like that? It makes no sense. Females make no sense.  
  
In any event, I went to get myself a cider from the refectory, but the pot had already gone cold. Figures.

 

* * *

  
_2nd 24.8, Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans, Mount Straga_  
  
Porfozald Marballees, Second Regular of the Royal Academy, gasped in horror as the door of his study chamber flew open. The hulking figure that stormed in towered over him by at least a head and was wearing the uniform and armor of the High Honor Guard—as well as an expression of ferocious anger.  
  
“You’re Marballees, arent’cha?”  
  
“Y-y-yes? A-and?”  
  
The newcomer loomed closer and jabbed Porfozald in the chest with an enormous purple clawed finger. “I hear you’ve been givin’ Shulma trouble.”  
  
“It’s—it’s considered good f-form to, er, um, s-state your name and b-business, you—you interloper, you!”  
  
“Right. Only fair. Second Corporal Garazeb Orrelios, of the Lasan High Honor Guard, and I’ve come to tell you”—here he grabbed the shaman by the collar of his tunic—“that if you don’t leave Shulma alone I’m gonna pound your worthless posterior to a BLOODY PULP and FEED IT TO THE CONVOREES!”  
  
“GURRK!” exclaimed Porfozald, or something of that general import. “Un-unhand me, y-you ruffian!”  
  
Second Corporal Orrelios tightened his grip. “You didn’t unhand Shulma, did ya?! After she told you to! MORE THAN ONCE!”  
  
“Wh-wh-what’s it to you?” Porfozald whimpered, now quaking like an aspyn in a high wind. “Sh-she doesn’t b-belong to you!”  
  
“What’s it to me?! What’s it to ME?!” The soldier punctuated this utterance by shoving the hapless shaman against a wall. “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS TO ME! Shulma is my lady and my love and I will DEFEND HER WITH MY LIFE FROM THE LIKES OF YOU!!”  
  
“I—I REPEAT, UNHAND ME!” Porfozald was fairly screeching now. “I ch-challenge you to an hon-honorable bout of f-fisticuffs, you—you—!”  
  
Just then, with a sound like a rock goat in pain, he crumpled downward in a nervous faint. Second Corporal Garazeb Orrelios, of the Lasan High Honor Guard, snickered to himself as he dumped the shaman’s unconscious form into the desk chair, brushed the dust from his wrist bracers, and left.

 

* * *

  
**2nd 27.3** Another boring day of studying.  
  
**2nd 28.4** And another.  
  
**3rd 1.5** Ditto.


End file.
